Karoke Plus WWE Superstars Do NOT Mix!
by Ace of Hearts
Summary: I know, I know, the old WWE Superstars doing karaoke is so clich¨¦, it's made us all develop blas¨¦ attitudes toward them. That doesn't mean they're not fun, however. *Stars Triple H, RVD, Jericho, Jeff Hardy, Stephanie, Lita, Kurt Angle, and Rey Myst
1. Prologue

*A/N: Bleh, I seem to have the worst luck with _Gundam Wing_ fics lately, because I can never finish them unless I delete the story and rewrite it for another section. Which is what I'm doing with one of my _GW_ fics that has been sitting on the shelf lately, and it's about damn time that I blow the dust off and revamp it as a WWE fic. Hey, this wacky makeover thing's gonna work; see, to quote Kelly Bundy, "It's kind of like how Michael Jackson's career really kicked off when he became Diana Ross!" (or something like that--I'm terrible with quotes!)* 

* * *

One would think that a group of able, fit, and reasonably young men and women working for the biggest wrestling empire in the world would be able to scrounge up _some_ amount of money. Unfortunately, however, it only took a necrophilia angle and a stepmother-vs.-stepdaughter crapfest, amongst other horrific and forgettable angles, to plummet the WWE's ratings lower than Vanilla Ice's career. Thusly, the only type of currency that the aforementioned WWE Superstars could come up with were wrapped in gold tin foil and made of milk chocolate that sold for a dime a dozen. 

It was not a surprising sight, then, come Saturday morning to find Triple H and Stephanie McMahon hogging up the only couch in the arena and gleefully tearing at way overdue bills, while Rob Van Dam just sort of wandered around, mellow as ever and bored out of his mind. Kurt Angle was seated behind a crumbling oak desk, wearing a green visor and reading glasses perched atop his nose, punching digits into a bulky gray calculator in an effort to find out just how much money the WWE had lost thanks to Vince McMahon's latest string of "brilliant ideas." Lita, who'd been wheedled into the unfortunate task of helping Kurt do the accounting, could occasionally be found whining to herself in frustration as Kurt got yet another math equation wrong, forcing the tall redhead to redo the whole thing. Chris Jericho and Jeff Hardy had for once put aside their differences, concentrating instead on their very important assignment that Vince himself had handed to them--namely, test out his brand-new brilliant innovation of WWE television. Instead of the XFL, this time it was an all-divas show called _Babewatch, _starring Trish Stratus as a buxom blonde lifeguard named BJ, and Jeff and Jericho were making sure that they tested out every single second of _Boobwatch_--urk, that is, _Babewatch._

Meanwhile, as Hunter and Stephanie tore away at defenseless credit card bills (if they were curious as to how someone--namely, Jericho--could have spent over two grand at a store bearing the acronym of C.R.A.P., they didn't say anything), Jericho and Jeff happily ogled--urk, that is, viewed--_Babewatch, _while Kurt busied himself with trying to do the accounting and avoid getting decked by Lita at the same time. RVD then chose that moment to get bored of being bored, and wandered on over to the hideously tacky purple-green-and-tan bean bag chair in front of the TV that the two J's were hogging, fishing the remote control out of the turtle tank. Ignoring Jericho and Jeff's outraged squawks at having their drooling--erm, viewing--time interrupted, RVD switched off _Boob_...urk, _Babewatch_ and began flipping through the channels a mile a minute to the point where he could catch only glimpses of colored blurs flickering on the TV screen. 

"Do you want to earn easy money--and have a ton of fun doing it?!"   
_Screech!_ RVD stopped dead in his tracks, and frantically began retracing his steps back to the channel that had spouted out the overly cheerful drivel about earning easy money and having fun while doing so. The fact that Jericho and Jeff had now forgotten about _Babewatch_ and were hollering at him to get back to the channel wasn't exactly helping, but finally RVD managed to return to the commercial spouting easy money schemes. On the TV screen, a buff and blonde guy with slicked-back hair and a (counterfeit) million dollar smile was chirping in an insanely bubbly voice, "If you're like me, who would love to earn some fast cash but just does not feel like slaving away at an unrewarding job, then have I got a contest for you! Enter the Annual Us Karaoke Festival, sponsored by Crab Apple Computers, and walk home with a bundle of green--up to a hundred grand--if you win first prize!" The commercial then gave way to last year's winners of two men sporting manes of flowing magenta hair and decked out in flashy gold-sequined suits as they sang out a duet version of "It's Raining Men." RVD shrugged, Jericho and Jeff winced, Triple H and Stephanie frowned, and Kurt said a silent thank you prayer as Lita became distracted by the disco madness and temporarily forgot how frustrated she was with the bald Olympian. Meanwhile, back on the TV screen, the insanely bubbly host of the commercial came back on.   
"Now remember, guys and gals, it's so easy to apply, even my grandmother's niece's dog's toy bone's favorite flea can apply!" he shouted into his microphone. "Just go online and type in the extremely simple address of s had chosen to sing "It's Raining Men" to earn extra spending money rather than stripping down to their lingerie or rolling around with mannequin corpses! 

* * *

**And the (highly unwilling!) contestants for the Karaoke Festival are...*drumroll***

1. Hunter Hearst Helmsley, a.k.a. Triple H   
2. Rob Van Dam, or simply RVD   
3. Jeff Hardy, otherwise known as the glow-in-the-dark rag doll   
4. Chris Jericho, a.k.a. Y2J, a.k.a. the Ayatollah of Rock n' Rollah, a.k.a. the King of the World   
5. Stephanie McMahon, the most dominant woman in the WWE   
6. Kurt Angle, the Olympic Champion   
7. Lita, the femme fatale of Team Xtreme   
8. Rey Mysterio, a last-minute contestant who squeezed in for the second round 


	2. Chapter I: Triple H Is Back In Black

A sea of over thirty thousand people had gathered at the outdoors Annual Us Karaoke Festival sponsored by Crab Apple Computers to watch this year's performers. RVD, meanwhile, was walking around backstage, trying his hardest to ignore Contestant No. 5's whiny-voiced butchering of the already annoyingly repetitive "Hey Baby." He was looking for one Hunter Hearst Helmsley, who was both MIA and, as Contestant No. 7, set to go onstage after these next two acts. RVD himself wasn't set to go on until over ten others had already finished their acts, but as much as he hated to admit it, Y2Jerk and the glow-in-the-dark Raggedy Andy doll had a point, and the WWE wrestlers really _were_ broke and desperate enough to try and earn some quick cash by competing in a karaoke contest. Unfortunately, however, the judges certainly would _not_ be impressed if one of the WWE acts pulled a Guns N' Roses and flat out no-showed--especially after they had to endure the aforementioned "Hey Baby," plus "Bye Bye Bye" (which equaled Migraine Migraine Migraine), the ever popular "I Will Survive," and some bling bling crap RVD didn't quite get but John Cena certainly seemed rather into. 

RVD passed by the dressing rooms, trying to both ignore Stephanie rehearsing her song in the showers and desperately attempting to block the image of Jericho hopping around as he tried to step into his skin-tight leather pants, his red-tipped long blonde hair sticking out in every possible direction and the brush in his mouth somehow still not preventing him from humming out something about shouting at McMahon--urk, the Devil. RVD was about to go past the sauna, designed for participants to warm up their delicate vocal chords in the moist, hot steam, when a most horrendous screeching noise caught the usually mellow wrestler's attention, and he stopped. RVD leaned against the doors, wondering who in their right mind would bring over a small cow to butcher in the saunas, then suddenly detected the vaguest hint of familiarity within the screeching noises. RVD frowned, pressing his ears against the doors and listening harder. He could now discern the banshee screams to be human ones, rather than those of a dying farm animal, and wondered whether the person behind these terrible shrieks was in some sort of intolerable pain...But wait! He could hear a certain rhythm to these screeches. Which meant...this was the sound of someone singing and warming up his vocals in the saunas! RVD struggled to make out the words, and was able to discern something along the lines of, "Blah dee blah-uh! Ah blah-uh blah suck-uh!" He winced, before deciding that he didn't want to end up popping his eardrums before he got his shot at the hundred grand first prize, and stepped into the sauna, ready to kick the blah-dee-uh-blah person's ass should it be necessary to shut him up.

A blast of hot steam greeted RVD, straight in the face, and he had lean back from the force and push a few loose strands of hair away from his eyes in order to see better in all the steam. RVD squinted, and could make out the shape of a distinctly male figure from whom the terrible blah-uh-blah screeches were coming from, his head flopping back and forth in a rather funny fashion. RVD used his hands to flip away the steam in front of him as he reached the figure, ready to give him a piece of his mind...and froze. And could only stare in shock. And stare. And stare. And continue to stare, at the sight that would have made even Jericho speechless.

Triple H was standing in the sauna, alone except for a portable cassette player which was blasting some heavy metal song out its speakers, and apparently very much the person from whom the blah-uh-blah banshee shrieks had been emanating. His muscular frame was squeezed into a black schoolboy's uniform several sizes too small for him, complete with the white knee-high socks and little cap perched smartly atop his head, which boasted a wild disarray of unruly dark blonde locks tightly wrapped in hair curlers. A bottle of Herbal Essence shampoo was grasped in his hand, into which he was belting out the blah-uh-blah lyrics that had made RVD's head spin.  
"Ah've gah-uh blah luhs! Ca's blahs-uh!" the _Raw_ Champion continued to holler into his shampoo, unaware of RVD's presence in the room. It wasn't until the other man loudly cleared his throat that Triple H's head--in all its hair curlers glory--snapped up, and he whirled around so fast it could make one's head spin, his sledgehammer already pulled out from wherever he kept it. RVD chuckled in amusement at this, and Triple H glared suspiciously, his sledgehammer still out but for now making no signs that he was going to clock RVD upside the head with it.  
"Hn."  
"Dude."

After the two had exchanged such ample, friendly greetings, an awkward silence settled between them, before Triple H finally spoke up again, apparently feeling obliged to explain his bizarre behavior.  
"I was, uh, rehearsing for my, uh, act," he muttered, signs of what actually appeared to be a blush seeping into his cheeks.  
"Cool," came RVD's prompt reply. Another stretch of silence passed between the two, before they both lowered their heads as Triple H rapidly muttered, "Let's never speak of this again."  
"Cool." Which, translated from Van Dam-nese, meant, "Fine with me, but if by any grand miracle you win this damn thing, I get a fifty-percent cut of your money, no ifs, ands, or buts about it!"

The two headed out of the sauna, just in time to hear the announcer sing out grandly into his microphone, "Wasn't that a delightful rendition of "YMCA"? Now, the Us Festival and Crab Apple Computers is very proud to present to you Contestant No. 7, hailing all the way from his hometown!" Triple H, rapidly pulling a trench coat over his schoolboy uniform to hide it, briskly made his way toward the stage, ripping out hair curlers from his head as he did so and making a beeline directly for the microphone. The announcer hurriedly finished his introduction, spouting out in a bubbly voice, "Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Mr. Gunther Hirsch Leona Helmsley, who'll be singing his own version of the AC/DC classic, "Back In Black!" Triple H glared at the announcer for completely butchering his name, then grasped the slender silver microphone stand in his hands, as behind him the amplifiers began blaring out the familiar guitar intro. He waited impatiently through the heavy riffs, before picking up his cue and opening his mouth, leaning into the mic and beginning to sing.

**_Song lyrics removed, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

_"Ooooh."_ A collective groan rose from the audience as Triple H tried to hit that last high note, and had their eardrums not been in such abuse, the greedy festival vendors would have surely been concocting schemes to sell crappy earplugs for insanely high prices. Triple H, however, coolly ignored the moaning and groaning from the tormented audience, and instead continued banshee-ing away.

**_Song lyricsremoved, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

If he was curious as to how the hell all these tormented canine howls suddenly sprang up, Triple H didn't bother to find out. Either way, since nobody was booing like mad or chucking rotten fruit up the stage (mainly due to the fact that nobody had the energy or willpower to move a single limb after being subjected to one and a half minutes of Triple H's horrendous "singing!") the tall, muscular World Champion merrily went on.

**_Song lyricsremoved, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

Thankfully for the tortured audience, however, God seemed to have taken mercy on their pitiful souls and even more pitiful ears, as at that moment, Triple H succeeded in hitting another particularly high note, and promptly blew out the microphone. The bewildered WWE Superstar leaned back in surprise as his mic shorted out, which in turn was the catalyst for a chain reaction of all the tall, black amplifiers set up onstage blowing out as well, which in turn was a catalyst for the immensely grateful audience letting out one collective weak sigh of relief. As Triple H blinked in astonishment, the dazed host of the karaoke festival, holding his cordless microphone in one hand and gingerly rubbing his eardrum with his free hand, tottered onto the stage and tee heed into his mic, "Eh heh...wasn't that nice," as he pushed a stiff and silent Triple H off the stage.  
"Um, let's see...the next act will be doing a karaoke cover of, um, Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love," he sputtered nervously into his microphone. A huge wave of tortured groans rippled across the audience, terrified at the prospect of enduring Triple H's little AC/DC venture, v. 2.0, only even more high-pitched due to the nature of Robert Plant's keening voice. The host himself didn't look too thrilled at the idea either, as he flipped impatiently through his notebook, muttering to himself, "On second thought, that contestant can be pushed back; let's see what would have been next--"Livin' On A Prayer," "Breathe," "Get Free," "Highway To Hell"--God no, not _another_ AC/DC song!" He frantically flipped through the setlist, before finally finding the softest song available and mumbling into his microphone, "Um, up next, ladies and gentlemen, is Contestant No. 78, who'll be singing the lullaby, "You Are My Sunshine."


	3. Chapter II: RVD Wants To Slide

RVD wandered around backstage, cheerfully unaware that Jeff had stuck a "Kick Me" sign on the back of his T-shirt and trying to comprehend why all the female karaoke contestants seemed to be dropping things right in front of him. RVD frowned, as he remembered how horrifically incorrect their posturing had been when they'd bent down to pick said things up--you're supposed to bend your knees so that your whole body is fully down; you don't bend straight over with your butt in the air, that can cause spinal problems! So engrossed was RVD in these thoughts that, as he ambled about, he forgot to watch where he was going and crashed right into a furious Triple H storming back from the stage.  
"Whoa, dude, chill out," RVD drawled, then glanced at the trench coat covering the larger man's delightful little Angus Young getup, and asked innocently, "Hey, where did your little schoolboy's uniform go? My sister would have really liked one of those for her twelve-year-old son." Triple H scowled at his words, before snarling an explanation of, "I blew out the damn amplifiers!" and pushing past the bewildered RVD to go sulk to Stephanie. RVD stared after the furious World Champion stalking off, shaking his head from side and side and whistling, "Whoa," repeatedly to himself. 

Fortunately, before anybody might think RVD's act was a bad imitation of a broken record player, Lita happened to walk by, desperately searching for any sort of sanctuary from Kurt and the WWE accounting tasks that he'd managed to lug with him and was now bothering the redhead to help him with. Spotting RVD standing around and staring off into space while muttering to himself, Lita ventured cautiously, "Hi, Rob...Are you okay? You're not, like...well, you know..." She blushed as her voice trailed off, polite enough to not finish her sentence, and RVD merely blinked sunny eyes at her and chirped brightly, "I'm not what? Oh, yeah, that's right--I'm up after these next three acts, huh?" Lita shrugged, muttering, "How should I know, all I care about is that I'm practically dead last at No. 99, which should give me plenty of time to rehearse." RVD nodded along wisely to her words, mumbling to himself, "Hmm, yeah, that might be a good idea." Lita's eyes widened in surprise, and she asked incredulously, "You mean, you haven't even practiced your song yet? Dude, you're up in less than twenty minutes!" RVD grinned goofily at the word that she'd unwittingly snatched from his daily vocabulary, before shrugging sheepishly and admitting, "Well, it's kind of hard to rehearse for your act when you haven't even got a song picked out yet!" If Lita had been sitting down, she would have surely fallen off her chair in shock, as she leaned up to the cheerful wrestler and squawked shrilly, "You _what!_ You don't even have a _song_ picked out yet!" RVD shrunk back under her imposing presence, but somehow still kept his cool and managed to sound as calm as ever, "Nope. See, originally I wanted to do a cover of "Smokin' In The Boys' Room," but Stephanie put her foot down (literally, by the way--she raised one of those new pumps of hers and stomped down on my foot, can you believe her!) and told me absolutely no--after the Katie Vick and Dawn-Al-Torrie fiascoes, she couldn't afford to give the WWE an even lower reputation by confirming a rumor. Whatever that means." RVD shrugged again, then brightened and interrupted Lita as she was about to comment on that subject, "Oh, and also how she didn't want me sounding like some sort of gay pervert lurking about a cramped little room where young boys drop down their pants to piss, as the title might imply!" Lita almost laughed straight into his face when she heard those words coupled with his confused expression.  
"Well, Rob--" she started to say, but RVD cut her off yet again to huff and whine, "Which is completely unfair--I mean, if she'd just take the time to actually _read_ the lyrics, she'd know that "Smokin' In The Boys' Room" is far from some sort of kinky gay voyeurism thing!"  
"Uh, Rob--" Lita tried to pick up where she'd left off, but RVD seemed determined to play Kurt's role that day and continued to ramble on, completely engrossed in himself and happily clueless of his surroundings.  
"I mean, honestly, it's not like _her_ song is all that innocent and non-suggestive and whatever," he grumbled. "I mean, with a chorus that goes--"  
"ROB!" Lita, beginning to see shades of Kurt Angle in Mr. Monday Night, finally decided to use the same approach with the latter that she used with the former--bully him into shutting up. It was a time-tested technique that never failed to work, as proven by when RVD finally stopped rambling and gave her his full attention. Unfortunately, however, so did just about everybody else present, and Lita blushed when she saw all those eyeballs fixed curiously on her form, before she cleared her throat and mumbled awkwardly, "Here, Rob, tell you what--since you don't have a song yet, and since No. 16's already finished his performance and you need an act fast, I'll help you pick out a song that will imply nothing about smoking pot or guy-on-guy voyeurism, okay?" RVD shrugged cheerfully.  
"Gee, thanks," he replied in a sunny voice.

* * *

The festival host flashed a strained grin at the audience, mumbling weakly into his microphone, "Thank you, Ms. Taylor. Now, wasn't that just the most dazzling rendition of "I Will Survive"? You really get to distinguish the little trademark bits of the song after the twenty-seventh rendition, don't you!" The audience, whether because they were really enthusiastic about disco or maybe just because they were suffering from heat stroke coupled with Triple H's earlier ear-busting performance, responded with such a mad roar of cheering and whistling that the hapless host was nearly blown right off the stage.  
"All right, now let's forget all about the seventies and disco," he sang out into his microphone, "and welcome Contestant No. 19, Mr. Rob Van Dam, who will be singing a stunning rendition of..."

RVD then made his grand entrance, looking completely different from his casual jeans-and-T-shirt-clad earlier self after a certain red-haired high flyer was done with her makeover. Gone were the faded Levi's, ripped and torn at one knee, to be replaced by a pair of crisply pressed black pants tight enough to tantalize but still loose enough so as to pose no threat to Jericho's shiny little ensembles. Instead of his white T-shirt, RVD had been wheedled into wearing a charcoal-gray wife-beater, and to achieve that rock star hair, Lita had assaulted his long sandy ponytail with enough mousse and hairspray to put Diana Ross to shame, as she somehow managed to manipulate his tawny-colored locks so that they stuck out swankily in what appeared to be a bad Jon Bon Jovi hairstyle impersonation. Lita was still sticking all sorts of slap-on temporary tattoos onto RVD's bare arms and shoulders when he tottered dazedly onto the stage, apparently having appeared only because someone--namely, Lita--had shoved him out from behind the curtains by force. The host blinked at Mr. Monday Night's rather...erm, unique entrance, then scurried to dodge the bras that were already being thrown up at RVD, mumbling hurriedly into his microphone, "Urk, here's Mr. Rob Van Dam to sing the Goo Goo Dolls' smash single, "Slide!"

The music started, and RVD, glancing back and trying to decipher exactly what Lita's frantic gestures from behind the curtains meant (they were supposed to order him to get up to the microphone and sing, by the way), finally got the point and went up to the mic stand.

**_Song lyrics removed, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

RVD had to stop, then, because the girls' frantic screaming was completely drowning out the sound of his surprisingly okay voice, and as he opened his mouth to sing again, a lacy pink bra flew right onstage and hit him squarely in the face.  
"Gahck!" A startled RVD struggled to untangle the silky material from his face, praying that his mother wasn't watching this, and to cover up his embarrassment, quickly rushed through the rest of the song.

**_Song lyrics removed, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

****

* * *

After RVD had finished and the bras had been collected from onstage and tossed back into the audience, the former ECW'er walked backstage and hogged up the nearest computer to read the Internet smarks' reviews about his little performance. Clicking on the first WWE news and rumors web page he found, RVD waited patiently for the headlines and pictures to load...and then reacted in a most curious fashion.  
"Aaaauuuugggghhh!"

"What!"  
"What happened!"  
"Mommy!"  
RVD's shriek drew the attention of most of the WWE Superstars backstage preparing for their own acts, as a slew of wrestlers and divas, Lita included, rushed up to see what had startled RVD so. The flame-haired femme fatale was the first to reach the laptop, and frowned when she saw nothing out of the ordinary displayed on the web page, save for a rather enticing pictorial of herself posing in a hot pink bikini. Lita gave an insulted huff, assuming that her divas' magazine centerfold was what had made RVD let out his little siren wail, grumbling, "You know, Rob, most men would agree that me in a bikini is a sexy--_not_ scary--sight!" Before Lita could go on lecturing RVD, Jericho and Kurt had arrived as well, and began reading across the front page. The blonde Canadian was first to finish, and his response was to let out one of his annoyingly sarcastic laughs, causing Lita to whirl around and seethe, "Oh, so now you think that me in a bikini is _funny!" _Just then, Kurt finally finished, and reacted by clapping his hands on his shaved head and gasping accusingly, "Oh, my God! I can't believe you would do something like this! How could you!" Lita left Jericho to continue to smirk and laugh away, turning her attention to Kurt and trying to explain, "Kurt, it's not that slutty for someone to pose in a bikini...Hey, it could be worse, I could have been completely naked...Oh, please, like Trish hasn't posed in more provocative outfits...You know what, I bet that you just wish it was Stephanie in that bikini and not me...!" Finally, Jeff arrived at the scene, briefly read across the page, heard Lita's frustrated words, glanced around at the rest of the motley crew--RVD was still in shock, Jericho was still screechingly laughing away, and Kurt was still spouting drivel about sluts easier than first grade arithmetics and degenerating morals--and finally corrected Lita's impressions by clearing his throat and pointing out to the redhead, "Um, Lita? You might want to read the _headline_ splashed _beside_ your beach photo shoot pictorial!" At this, Lita finally whipped around and took the time to read the words beside her picture, finding the headline screaming at her from the page in bold capital letters, "WWE Superstar Rob Van Dam Impregnates Teenage Girl; Condemns Her For Getting Abortion But Proposes Eloping!"

"D'oah!"  
In their adjoining private dressing room, Stephanie glanced up from consoling Triple H to wonder if what she'd just heard really was the sound of a body hitting the floor in frustration.

* * *

A/N: Just in case you didn't get that last part or didn't take the time to read through the lyrics, the song "Slide" is actually about a teenage couple who're unexpectedly having a baby, and the guy is basically asking his girlfriend why did she have to get an abortion, but then telling her that he'll let this slide and then asking her if she wants to get married.


	4. Chapter III: Jeff Smells Like Teen Spiri...

Jeff Hardy had once watched an episode of VH1's endlessly rerun _Behind the Music _series, during which the lead singer of the featured _BTM_ band had made a casual remark of how he believed that if the band looked like big rock stars, then they were pretty much already made. Unfortunately for the WWE Superstars stuck doing karaoke to earn money, the young daredevil had taken that advice very much to heart, and during the last few precious minutes when he should have been rehearsing to improve the WWE's chances of winning, Jeff was found hopping around like a kangaroo on smack, trying every which way to look like the rock star he was about to imitate onstage. Stephanie had caught the young high flyer careening every which way, now hastily running a brush through his hair, now making sure that his ripped jeans were faded in just the right way, and shook her head while grumbling something under her breath about how she didn't need two prima donnas in Jericho and Jeff. The latter simply ignored her complaint, and went on getting his look just right. 

Which wasn't as easy as one might think, considering how straight-legged jeans and the flannel look overall had gone way out of style--way, _way_ out of style--since the mid-nineties. Jeff, in his desperate search for the perfect grunge outfit, soon found himself knocking on the doors of every tackily-dressed contestant he saw, hoping to borrow an old flannel shirt or a pair of almost-white faded jeans, all the while trying to grow a goatee in fifteen minutes at the same time.  
"Ma'am? Ma'am?" Jeff urgently flagged down a large black woman decked out to sing Aretha Franklin's "Respect." When the woman finally spared a glance at him, Jeff proceeded to ask in the most innocent voice conceivable, "Do I look like a coke addict? Well, do I?" While the poor woman did a double take, Jeff continued to banter, "Seriously, ma'am, this is _really_ important for my act--I mean, I can go back and redraw the little bags under my eyes or add some more red bruises on my arms! Please, I would _really_ value your opinion...Uh, ma'am, why are you looking at me like that...? Oh, I get it...Look, as much as I think you're a, ah, big and beautiful woman, I already have a girlfriend, and I really don't want to cheat on her...Hey, where are you going! I still need to know your opinion; do I look like a grungy drug addict or not? Dude, get your fat ass back here and give me an input, dammit, my look can seriously affect my chances of winning! Come back here!"

Fortunately, before Jeff could continue making a fool out of himself, a fellow WWE wrestler heard his outraged squawks and demands of whether he had the angst-ridden drug addict rock singer look just right, as Rey Mysterio, who'd previously been busy glancing at his schedule sheet, warily approached the taller man and mumbled, "Uh, Jeff? Aren't you up in fifteen minutes?" Jeff whipped around, confusion evident on his face when he saw the shorter, masked man, demanding to know, "Mysterio? What the hell are you doing here, me and Jericho didn't sign you up." Rey shrugged, admitting with a sigh, "Yeah, well I really needed the money, and when Shannon mentioned that Matt's seriously pissed off at you because signing up for a karaoke contest to win money is going directly against Mattitude, I thought I'd give this thing a shot." Jeff had spaced out during Rey's explanation, returning to Earth only to shoot the shorter man a confused look and mutter ditzily, "Huh? I'm sorry, I wasn't listening...Hey, Mysterio, do you think my hair's just the right shade of bleached blonde?" Rey cocked his head, noticing with interest for the first time that Jeff had actually washed all the crazy hair dye and body paint off, and would have looked like a normal young man, save for what appeared to be two black eyes and a series of bruises and stitches drawn all over his arms and legs with what appeared to be Lita's Dark Cherry lipstick.  
"Uh, Jeff?" Rey tapped at his own chin, then pointed at the scraggle of what looked like straw that seemed to be stuck on Jeff's jaw. "You seem to have a little, ahem, dirt on your face..." Jeff's left hand shot up to his face as he rubbed at the "dirt" on it, before replying carelessly, "Oh, that? That's just the goatee that I'm growing...Jeez, can't you tell?" Rey's eyes widened incredulously, and he replied, "Not really, no...Jesus Christ, man, what are you doing here, trying to go for the whole Courtney Love look or what!" Jeff's eyes lit up.  
"Hey, pretty close, but no," he informed him sunnily, and Rey about fell to the floor when he heard his words.  
"Uh...oh-kay." Rey began to discreetly back away from the younger high flyer, but right before he was about to reach safety zone, Jeff popped a question out of left field as he steered the subject away from his look and asked, "So, which song are you singing?" Rey shrugged, digging his hands into the pockets of his jeans and admitting with a sigh, "I don't know...Apparently, I was too late to get into the first round, but since the director of this event happens to be a huge fan of me, she said she'd accommodate for me to squeeze into the second round after half the contestants have been eliminated. And, as it turns out, in the second round you don't get to choose your own song--they're randomly assigned for you, that way it's supposed to judge your versatility and vocal range."

Jeff opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to say something, but at that moment both men heard the festival host boom into his microphone, "And now that we've gotten "Stayin' Alive" out of our systems, it's time for Contestant No. 23, ladies and gentlemen! Please give it up for the Mouth from the South, Mr. Jeff Hardy!" A wave of mad shrieks and squeals from young girls greeted his announcement, and Jeff grinned and chirped, "Well, that's my cue," before further messing up his hair to get the scraggly, unwashed look just right and hopping on over to the stage.

"EEEEEEEEEEE--huh?" The teenyboppers looked confused when they saw their precious iddle widdle Jeffykins strutting out dressed in the tackiest flannel and faded jeans outfit conceivable, while made up with what appeared to be two globs of purplish-black bags underneath his eyes and an array of needle bruises painted on with lipstick. Jeff, however, ignored the confusion of his Teenybopper Army, and instead concentrated only on the music, beginning to sing...er, harmonize...er, yodel out the lyrics after the first couple of guitar chords struck.

**_Song lyrics to Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit"removed, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

_"Ah!"_ The little thirteen-to-sixteen-year-old girls gasped as well, realizing that their widdle Jeffykins knew a dirty word!

**_Song lyrics to Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit"removed, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

_"Our virgin ears!"_ If they looked surprised and dismayed when Jeff had warbled out that he knew a dirty word (God only knows how they'd managed to decipher the incoherent muttering!), the teenyboppers were positively dumbfounded and upset when widdle Jeffykins sang out about his libido, following by a high-pitched cheer of, "Yay!"

**_Song lyrics to Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit"removed, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

_"NOOOOOO!"_  
Jeff screeched to a stop amidst his warbling, blinking in bewilderment as a wave of wailing and shrieking fangirls stormed up the stage, upset beyond belief and determined to strip widdle Jeffykins of all his hideously tacky flannel and wash his mouth out with soap.  
"Aw, shit," he muttered; unfortunately for him, the microphone conveniently placed in front of his mouth amplified his words into a booming screech, making the teenyboppers even more determined to purge his mouth of all profanities. Jeff took one good look at the massive swarm of teenage girls rushing at him in a mad frenzy, and for once it appeared as if all that bouncing and bumping around had spared _some_ working brain cells, because the young daredevil wasted no time in taking off like a shot, running for his life with the teenyboppers in hot pursuit and closing in fast.

RVD, meanwhile, watching poor Jeff scramble around like mad in an effort to dodge his teenybopper fans, shook his head and clucked his tongue in what might have been sympathy. Remembering back to how he'd been assaulted with loose bras flying all over the stage during his own performance, RVD grumbled to himself, "Great, just great--the little glow-in-the-dark rainbow just _has_ to outdo me, doesn't he!"


	5. Chapter IV: Jericho Loves Those Girls Gi...

While Jeff Hardy had focused on _Behind the Music's_ look like a rock star commandment, Chris Jericho had chosen to live by another all-too cliché _BTM_ hard rock rule--party like a rock star. Which would probably explain why, as Contestant No. 38 was strutting around the stage pretending that he was Elvis Presley, Jericho had turned his little broom-closet-converted-to-dressing-room into what looked like a full-on rave. 

As Jericho warmed up for his upcoming performance by reacquainting himself with his good friend Mr. Jack Daniel, a fake redhead with breasts even bigger than Sable's sidled up to the blonde Canadian, giggling flirtatiously, "So, I hear you're a huge rock star." She batted her long, fake lashes seductively in his direction. "Is that true?" Jericho tore himself from his conversation with one of his Fozzy bandmates, flashing a boastful grin while puffing his chest out like some bodybuilder.  
"Of course I am," he bragged. "The Ayatollah of Rock n' Rollah himself, Chris Je--er, I mean...um..._Axl_ Jericho." The redhead raised her hands to her cheeks, gasping in an awestruck voice, "Really? _The_ Axl?" Jericho began to nod vigorously, his long blonde hair nearly smacking her right in her vivid purple contacts, and the redhead proceeded to coo, "I mean, wow! I didn't even know that the same figure skater guy who invented the axle kick is also a huge rock star! I mean, like, how totally cool is that?"  
"Eh heh!" Jericho's bottle of Jack Daniel's slipped from his hand and tumbled right onto the floor, and Jericho himself nearly followed in his booze's example as he struggled to remain seated in his chair just before he was about to fall out in frustration. The redhead, meanwhile, had begun to rant and rave about his figure skater _and_ rock star status, and the wary Jericho, who wasn't quite wasted enough to sink down to her level of stupidity, stumbled out of his chair and none-too-subtly inched as far away from her as he could.

Jericho wandered around his dressing-room-turned-nightclub, slapping high fives with his other, equally drunk Fozzy bandmates and tottering over to the long table set up at a corner in the room to switch drinks. He hadn't had a chance to take one lousy swig of vodka when he caught sight of another surgically augmented groupie wannabe, this one a snobby-looking girl with a loud fake British accent and a bleach job so bad, half her hair was still its original mousy brown color. Arrogant smirk already in place, Jericho checked his hair, conveniently reflected in the silver shades perched atop the nose of a willowy dark-haired girl nearby, before quickly making his way up to the blonde (fake) Brit and grinning, "Hey, how _you_ doing? I'm Ax...er..." Remembering the little axle kick incident, Jericho quickly changed his mind and proceeded to introduce himself as, "I'm Bon Jovi. Jericho Bon Jovi." The girl turned to him, laughing so loudly she nearly snorted her gold tequila straight out her nose, before remarking in a snide tone of voice, "Then the Bon Jovi high cheekbones gene must have stopped with big brother Jon, eh luv?" It took Jericho only ten minutes to figure out that the buxom blonde was laughing _at_ him, and not with him, and move on.

Jericho stomped off back to his booze table, grumbling none too flattering things about the blonde girl under his breath. As Contestant No. 38 finished "Jailhouse Rock" onstage and Contestant No. 39 prepared to sing "My Heart Will Go On," backstage Jericho was playing around with the ice cubes in his brandy glass when an amply-built Costa Rican girl ran up to him and asked loudly, "Is it true that you're a real rock star and not just some wannabe?" Jericho, the snotty blonde (fake) Brit's remark about his lack of high cheekbones already forgotten, turned around and flashed his least modest grin, shaking back his long mane of blonde hair and somehow managing to flex his pecs at the same time.  
"Of course it's true," he scoffed arrogantly. "Why I'm..." Remembering his Bon Jovi disaster, and then remembering his Axl disaster before that, Jericho quickly improvised, "I'm Christopher Lee Roth!"

At that moment, an exotic-looking Hawaiian vixen with shiny raven-black hair glided gracefully by, and Jericho forgot all about the busty Costa Rican brunette squealing in delight two inches away from his nose, as he turned to whistle at the Hawaiian and sing out, "Hey, how _you_ doing? I'm a huge rock star you know! Er...Chris Mustaine, of Megafozzydeth!"  
"What!" the Costa Rican girl turned to him, huffing, "I thought you were Christopher Lee Roth!" Jericho blinked.  
"I am," he shrugged carelessly, but the Hawaiian girl chose that moment to pipe up, "Didn't you just say that you were Chris Mustaine?"  
"I am that too," Jericho protested, but one look at the huffy expressions on his Costa Rican and Hawaiian princesses told him that they weren't quite dumb enough to believe him, and the Canadian rock star wisely made the decision to get the hell out of there before one of them had a chance to stick her pump up his ass for blatantly lying.

Jericho stumbled about, shaking his head and nearly sloshing his drink right into someone's lap.  
"Women," he was grumbling darkly to himself...when his head lifted and his eyes at that moment just happened to land on a most exquisite specimen of human beauty. Long, wavy blonde hair that shimmered and kissed the face, eyes that were enchanting dark pools, and a playful smirk that indicated both style and sass. A silly grin found its way to the drunken Jericho's face, and he stumbled as though in a trance toward the blonde beauty and drooled goofily, "Hey there, gorgeous. What are you drinking?" Now why were all those other people staring at him like that?

* * *

Stephanie McMahon sighed irritably to herself as she picked her way through the trashed dressing room, sidestepping a slobbering drunk who looked like he hadn't gotten a haircut since he was twelve. While enduring several brushes with slipping on whiskey bottles, Stephanie tried at the same time to find Chris Jericho, the lucky WWE Superstar set to go on after Contestant No. 40 was done belting out her rather unique version of No Doubt's "Hella Good." The _Smackdown! _general manager took nearly five minutes before she finally spotted Jericho, who seemed to be caressing a dusty, cracked mirror and warbling nonsense to it at the same time. Stephanie rolled her eyes, squared her shoulders, and began pushing and shoving her way through the sea of people, nearly getting groped several times along the way and finding herself bitch-slapping the few who did succeed in groping her. When she reached Jericho, she heard him saying to his reflection, "Listen, I understand if you want to take it slow...Here, I promise: Nothing past second base on the first date, okay?" Stephanie's eyebrows lifted in a pretty good imitation of the Rock, before she cleared her throat loudly and remarked, "So, Jericho. Ready to go out there and show us just how big a rock star you are?" She decided--for Jericho's sake and her own--to ignore his narcissism and mirror-groping. Jericho blinked, suddenly remembering that he _was_ here to sing and not just chase after women, and mumbled, "Oh, is it my turn already?" Stephanie nodded.  
"Sure is," she told him. "You're up after this next girl." Jericho snapped up.  
"Aw, shit!" he cursed. "I have to go find my fellow Fozzsters before that fat chick is done yodeling about how I've gotten her feeling hella good!" Stephanie's eyebrows shot up.  
"You brought a live band with you?" she nearly screeched. "And you haven't even rehearsed yet!" Jericho waved his hand back and forth, as though that was no big deal.  
"Don't get your panties in a knot," he scoffed, ignoring the vein that was beginning to twitch dangerously on Stephanie's forehead at his words. "The Mighty Fozz has got Guns N' Roses' "Welcome To The Jungle" down pat! We'll ace this thing and rock the roof off--if this crappy outdoors stage had one, anyway!" Stephanie shrugged.  
"All right, then," she conceded slowly. "But are you sure that--"  
"Now let me worry about finding the rest of Fozzy," Jericho told her cheerfully. "You just get ready to hear a version of "Slave To The Grind" that's even better than Skid Row's original one!" Stephanie began to frown.  
"Didn't you just say you were going to do that "Welcome Whatever" song?" she reminded him suspiciously, and Jericho shrugged.  
"Fine, fine, Steph," he mumbled. "If it means that much to you, then Fozzy will just forget all about the rehearsing it didn't do and change the song to Kiss's "Detroit Rock City."  
"Oh, no," Stephanie muttered slowly to herself. "Chris, for your own good--and for the WWE's classy reputation if it had one--I really don't think you should go out there. You're too drunk and you'll just make a fool out of yourself and Daddy's company--how do I know that in your wasted state you won't just drop your pants down in the middle of the song and start humping the mic stand? Besides, you couldn't sing even if you wanted to--you can't even remember the song you're doing!" Jericho gave her a what-are-you-nuts? look, scoffing, "Course I do, Stephanie! It's Twisted Sister's "We're Not Gonna Take It," duh! Here, I'll even sing a few lines, see, just to prove I can remember--ahem...Ahem! Ahem! Okay, here we go: Oh, you're so constipated/La dee da something something...burp, whoops, 'scusie moi..." Stephanie rolled up her sleeves, getting ready to haul Jericho as far away from the stage as possible by force, when Jericho breezed out of her grasp and sang out, "Now you just enjoy the show, Steph, while Fozzy and I kick the assclowns' asses with the best damn rendition of Van Halen's "Hot For Teacher" that you've ever heard!"

While Stephanie braced herself for the humiliation that was to come, Jericho happily pranced out onstage, and the remaining members of Fozzy just sort of trickled in, as the festival host announced, "And here's Contestant No. 41--oh, lookie, and he seems to have brought a live band too, good for him. Anyways, hailing all the way from Winnie the Pooh in Canada, here's Mr. Chris Jericho to sing...Er, I can't read what it says here; this is the worst chicken-scratch handwriting I've ever seen in all my twenty-six years of life!" Jericho glared at him, before grumbling into the microphone, "Yeah, well as soon as you hear this song that my band and I are doing, you won't even need to announce the title! It's classic! It's timeless! It's--" At that moment, Fozzy's lead guitarist finally managed to plug his guitar into the amps, and proceeded to let loose on his instrument with a screech so loud, Jericho had to turn around to make sure Stephanie wasn't lurking around, protesting his soon to be historic performance. When he was sure the GM was nowhere in sight, Jericho smirked in satisfaction, struck what he thought was a rock star pose, wobbled on his feet and nearly fell over in his drunken state, before finally beginning to sing.

**_Song lyrics to Motley Crue's"Girls Girls Girls"removed, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

Unfortunately for Jericho, he seemed to be struck with a sudden hiccupping attack just then, and his band had to improvise and lag on as Jericho made weird faces and whined that somebody get him some peanut butter. Finally, when his hiccups started going away, Jericho resumed singing.

**_Song lyrics to Motley Crue's"Girls Girls Girls"removed, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

That last part, unfortunately, wasn't exactly improvisation on the Canadian wrestler's part. Unknown to Jericho, all the teenyboppers had ditched the festival in an attempt to strip Jeff Hardy of his hideously tacky grunge attire, so that all that were left of the female festival-goers were the tight-lipped feminists, who at that moment also decided to storm the stage and chase after Jericho...only with not quite the same intentions as the young girls had had during Jeff's performance. Jericho's eyes bugged out when he saw all the angry middle-aged and almost-middle-aged feminists throw away their anti-male-chauvinism, let's-castrate-all-men-because-they're-slovenly-pigs pickets, roll up the sleeves of their shoulder-padded business jackets, and stampede onto the stage to unleash their wrath on him for his choice of song. Jericho quickly responded by ad-libbing the little _What the!_ line into the middle of Mötley Crüe's "Girls Girls Girls" lyrics, before letting out a little girlie scream and running off the stage.

Meanwhile, momentarily hidden from his teenyboppers, Jeff watched Jericho careening crazily around with a wave of angry feminists on his ass, and broke out into a huge grin.  
"Serves him right," he muttered, "for all those times he made fun of my hair!"  
"Oh, Mr. Hardy? Why, he's right over there..." Jeff then heard RVD coolly inform the teenyboppers of his exact hiding place, swore under his breath, and took off.


	6. Chapter V: Stephanie Will Always Love Yo...

"WHAT!"  
Crack Crack Shatter  
Triple H winced as Stephanie McMahon screeched her outrage when informed that the song she'd originally wanted to perform, "Wind Beneath My Wings," had pretty much already been done seven gajillion times before she was set to go on.  
"Come on, Steph," he tried to appease her, "that's what you get for being No. 55, you know. Now, if you had been Lucky No. 7, like I was, why, then--"  
SLAP 

Not surprisingly, Hunter never got to finish his sentence, and when an apparently now sober Chris Jericho poked his head into the room to make fun of Steph, he found the World Heavyweight Champion sulking on the couch with an ice pack pressed against his jaw, and Stephanie working diligently on pacing a long, narrow strait right through the floor.  
"Come on, Steph," Hunter once again tried his luck, this time actually thinking before speaking for a change. "Listen, there are plenty of other songs out there that will showcase your, uh, incredible vocal range as the biggest diva in this karaoke contest, much better than "Wings" ever could have, anyway." Stephanie turned around, hands planted on her hips as she huffed grumpily, "Oh, yeah? Like what?"  
"Uh..." Hunter's eyes nervously darted around for anything that might back up his words, before quickly spotting some old Cher album and diving across the coffee table to snatch it. "Here, I know. Have you ever seen the video for that one Cher song where she was performing on top of some old Navy ship for a bunch of sailors?"  
"Oh, yeah, the assless thong!" Jericho butted in, earning a sharp glare from Stephanie and a scowl from Hunter.  
"Hmm, I think so," Stephanie began, and started humming the melody. Hunter perked up, scrabbling with the CD case to pull out the little lyrics booklet and quickly flipping to the page he wanted before handing it to the youngest McMahon.  
"Here, sing a few lines so we can, urk, enjoy your glorious Cher cover," he sputtered, and Stephanie shrugged before nodding in agreement and clearing her throat.

**_Song lyrics to Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time"removed, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

_Crack Crack_

**_Song lyrics to Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time"removed, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

_Crack Crack Crack Crack_

**_Song lyrics to Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time"removed, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

****

Stephanie paused furiously in mid-screech, just in time before she could shatter anything else, and turned on Hunter, hollering in outrage in a voice that _did_ shatter something else (Jericho's flashy mirrored sunglasses, actually!), "If I could turn back time! Are you saying that I'm old! Is that it! You think I'm old, don't you! What, is this some subtle hint for me to get a facelift!" Hunter's mouth dropped open in shock and terror, as he squeaked in a tiny voice, "N-no, Miss McMahon." Stephanie huffed insultedly.  
"Just for that, you're in the doghouse, Mister," she snapped. "And I mean literally! Have fun cleaning out Lucy's little surprises tonight, because she's sleeping on your couch for the next three months!" Hunter's chin began to wobble dangerously, as he started whining, "Aw, but Steph...!" Stephanie snapped her arm toward the door in a single whipping motion.  
"Get out of my sight, you dumb blonde!" she screeched in anger, and the equally blonde Jericho had the stupidity to holler, "Hey, watch what you're saying!" as Hunter slunk out of her dressing room. 

As soon as Hunter had left, Jericho quickly sidled up to Stephanie and pulled out a sheet of lyrics from inside his jacket, whispering in a conspiratorial voice, "Now that Triple Nose is out of here, we can get down to some serious business!" He then practically blinded poor Steph with the lyrics, as he sang out triumphantly, "Ta da! What do you think, huh?" Stephanie, after checking her nose to make sure she hadn't gotten any paper cuts, critically studied the title while mumbling questioningly, "Alone?" Jericho nodded eagerly.  
"That's right--you can't get any better than Heart's "Alone"--but don't tell the rest of Fozzy I said that, okay?" he added quickly, and Stephanie shrugged while quietly tucking away that last little piece of information into the back of her mind for future blackmail.  
"C'mon!" Jericho was practically hopping up and down with excitement. "Sing it! Sing it!" Stephanie scowled in annoyance.  
"All right, all right," she snapped irritably. "Jeez." And she took a deep breath and began to sing.

**_Song lyrics to Heart's "Alone"removed, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

_Shatter_

**_Song lyrics to Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time"removed, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

_Shatter Shatter Shatter_

Fortunately, before Jericho's second pair of flashy little sunglasses could break like his first pair had, Stephanie stopped abruptly in mid-song and shook her head.  
"Oh, Christopher, Christopher," she lamented mournfully, earning herself a wide-eyed look of confusion from the blonde Canadian. "I always knew something like this would happen. I mean, how could you resist this--" she flipped back her long chestnut hair like an Herbal Essences model--"this--" motioned with one arm up and down her figure--"and of course, these!" and finished by pointing to her massive (Great Dane!) puppies.  
"Huh?" Jericho's nose scrunched up in complete and utter confusion, and in the back of his mind he wondered whether Stephanie had found the time to consume as much alcohol as he had earlier that day.  
"Chris," Stephanie began in a quietly understanding voice, "I know you're attracted to me, and I can't say I'm all that surprised by it. I mean, let's be honest here--who wouldn't? However, you have a wife waiting for you at home, and I'm in a serious relationship with someone who would be all too happy to shove his World Heavyweight title belt straight up your little Canadian tush, if you know what I mean?" She sighed and paused for a dramatic effect, before continuing, "I'm sorry! But this has got to stop, right here and now! We can't go on pretending this chemistry isn't here!"  
"Eh...?" Jericho was beginning to have rather unwelcome flashbacks of when his ninth grade teacher had forced him to read the part of Juliet during their Shakespeare unit.

Fortunately for Jericho, before the little soap opera theatrics could continue, Jeff Hardy poked his head into the dressing room and chirped eagerly, "Hey, Steph, I heard you're looking for a new song. Have you ever thought of singing some Garbage!" Stephanie's eyebrows nearly flew right off her forehead in outrage, as she screeched insultedly, "Garbage! Why, any music coming out of _my_ gorgeous mouth is _not_ garbage...!" Jeff let out a little girlie scream as he wisely ducked out of her room, just in time to avoid getting pelted on the head by Hunter's heavyweight title.

Stephanie sighed in satisfaction as she kicked Jeff out, only to turn around and bump right into a goofily grinning Kurt Angle.  
"Kurt!" She drew back. "You startled me...how did you get in?"  
"We have adjoining dressing rooms, you know," the bumbling Olympian reminded her cheerfully, and Stephanie relaxed before questioning suspiciously, "You haven't exactly been, uh, peeping, have you?" Kurt looked offended.  
"Peeing!" he squawked. "Why, do I _look_ like I would just go to the bathroom in a place without a toilet?"  
"I meant--oh, never mind." It didn't take Stephanie too long to decide that if Kurt was clueless enough to misinterpret what she'd just said, he couldn't possibly even come up with the idea of peeping.  
"So, Kurt, what do you want?" she asked after a while, to which the Olympic champion began in a bubbly voice, "Well, I heard from that Hardy kid that you need a new song for this contest!"  
"Oh, no!" Stephanie groaned, and Kurt hastened to reassure her, "No, no! See, I've got a great idea, instead of telling you to sing garbage, I mean, you're much too pretty and nice and smart to do that!"  
"Coughsuckupcough," Jericho harrumphed none too discreetly, but was quickly silenced when Stephanie unleashed her killer glare on him. She then turned to Kurt, smiling sweetly and prodding, "Yes?"  
"Well, see, I was thinking that you could sing that one Frenchy song that's all exotic and sultry and whatnot, just like you, Steph," he continued. "You know, that "Lady Marmalade" thing?" Stephanie lit up.  
"Oh, yeah! With someone as sophisticated as me, it's only fair that I get an equally sophisticated song," she agreed.  
"So, go ahead and sing some for us, Steph," Kurt urged, ignoring Jericho's sarcastically mumbled jeer of, "Yeah, go ahead and sing for us, oh Stephy-poo. We totally can't wait to have our eardrums shattered!" Stephanie glared at him one last time, before beginning to sing what she could remember.

**_Song lyricsremoved, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

Before Stephanie could continue babbling and screeching her way through "Lady Marmalade," Jericho thankfully interrupted her by bursting out laughing in the most obnoxious way possible. Stephanie stopped, huffily sulking, "And just what was wrong with my song this time, Mr. Got-His-Ass-Whooped-By-Angry-Feminists?" Jericho stopped laughing and nearly croaked as he remembered that embarrassing little incident that Stephanie had gotten on tape and gleefully shown to him afterwards when he was sober, but quickly regained his composure and proceeded in his usual arrogant way, "Why, nothing's wrong with your song, Lady McMahon, except that you just asked me if I wanted to have sex with you!" Stephanie's mouth dropped open in outrage.  
"KURT!" SLAP

RVD wandered into the dressing room just in time to catch Jericho discreetly sneaking out via the nearest open window--but not before first spouting his good old, "Dirty, disgusting, brutal, bottom-feeding trashbag ho" catchphrase. Stephanie, busy with chasing Kurt around to smack his bald Olympic head with her purse while angrily screeching at him, was too preoccupied to notice when a certain obnoxiously arrogant blonde Canadian had now been replaced by an annoyingly calm, cool, and collected Michigan native. It wasn't until Kurt, preoccupied with dodging Stephanie, bumped smack dab into RVD and nearly caused his attacker to do the same that the _Smackdown! _GM finally noticed Mr. Monday Night's presence and screeched to a halt.  
"Oh, hi, Rob," she greeted warily. "What do you want?" RVD grinned in response.  
"Well, I came by to suggest a song for you, Steph," he replied casually, and Stephanie groaned.  
"No!" she almost yelled. "I don't want to hear any more stupid song suggestions that will lead to me kicking your ass." RVD blinked under her sonic assault, before quickly replying, "Now, Steph, hear me out, I swear you'll love it--this song was a total chart-topper back in the nineties; plus the singer was one of the biggest divas around." Stephanie looked skeptical, but when RVD revealed his song's name, the uncertainty was replaced with happiness as she squealed, "Oh, I _adored_ that movie!" RVD blinked in surprise.  
"Eh...you did?" he ventured nervously. Clearing his throat when Stephanie nodded an affirmation, he quickly went on, "Now, I'm not expecting much from you...but I'd kind of been hoping that, as head of the WWE's creative team, you'd be able to stretch your influence just a little for a tiny favor." Stephanie gave him a suspicious look.  
"What kind of favor?" she asked in a carefully guarded voice. RVD grinned.  
"Oh, nothing much," he whistled, a picture of innocence. "Just that you book Jeff Hardy into a match against Kane, with the stipulation that when Hardy loses, he has to be stripped down to whatever's appropriate for network television and thrown into the section of the arena that has the most young women for a full fifteen minutes!" Stephanie hesitated, mulling this over.  
"Well...it _was_ a good song that you suggested...And besides, Jeff _did_ imply that whatever I sang was garbage," she murmured to herself. She then snapped up and agreed briskly, "You've got a deal, Van Dam!"

* * *

"And now," the host bubbled in his usual insanely happy voice, "here's Contestant No. 55...who's decided to change her song from "Wind Beneath My Wings" to--are you ready for this--Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You!" Yay!"  
"NO!" the WWE participants, with the sole exception of RVD and his snug little earplugs, screeched in horror in the back. Stephanie confidently strutted out to the stage with the usual McMahon confidence, grabbed the microphone, and began to sing.

**_Song lyrics removed, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

"AAAAAAUUUGH!" the WWE participants shouted, with the exception of Jericho, who was now fighting with RVD for his earplugs.

**_Song lyricsremoved, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea_**

****

"NOOOOOOOO!" Jeff hollered, apparently after RVD had gleefully revealed to him the little match Stephanie had arranged in an effort to take his mind off the painful singing after Jericho had won the fight for the earplugs. 


End file.
